


Falling, Falling

by EmeraldTulip



Series: Oculus (I'm falling, falling, please hear me calling) [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, CaptainCanary, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, How Do I Tag, Mentioned atomic hawk, Not Really Character Death, Post-Episode "Destiny", Temporary Amnesia, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:49:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldTulip/pseuds/EmeraldTulip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, he should remember these people better than he does. All he remembers is the basics—just what they can do. No names, no faces. They should be familiar, but they’re just… not.</p>
<p>They’re not, and even worse, it’s all fading to a blur. Beyond that, it’s completely vanishing.</p>
<p>(The woman in white. She was good. She… helped him? She helped him feel. That’s all he can remember now. Nothing else. No one else.)</p>
<p>It terrifies him.</p>
<p>He’s not used to feeling so vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling, Falling

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in denial, everything hurts, and nothing can save me now.
> 
> Enjoy.

He’s falling, falling, into a deep cavern with no end in sight. Not that it matters, of course, considering his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. Trying to block out the end.

There are jagged bolts of white lightning-like light running through the air, blinding in the otherwise infinitely deep darkness. He can’t feel any heat radiating from them, but the hatred still burns steadily within him. Hatred of… someone ( _or someones_ , his mind unconsciously supplies) he can’t remember. Either way, the absolute loathing scorches him inside.

He knows that cold has always been inviting to him for that very reason. Because heat hurts too much. So much easier to be cold and detached.

(Someone made him feel different, though. He remembers that. Someone made him feel… warm. _Good_ warm. Like… home.)

His mouth still has words on the tip of his tongue, words so recently spoken. A confession, no less, he recalls.

(“… What the future holds for me. And you. And me and you.”)

But it’s vanishing from his mind even as he thinks of it.

(“You wanna steal a kiss from me, Leonard? You better be one hell of a thief.”)

Leonard is him, right? He should know this. He _has_ to know this. And this memory feels recent, he should remember this…

( _I stole something even greater_ , he finds himself thinking in response to that last thing he managed to recall. What that means, he doesn’t know.)

Something even more recent, too. 

(“There are no strings on me!”)

It means something. He knows it means something.

But it’s all fading, along with names and faces and things that _should_ be familiar, despite the level of bizarreness it has.

There are people from not long ago, of whom he can really only pick out vague pictures: a man head-to-toe in red, lightning trailing behind him as he races faster than sound. _Impossible_. Only, he knows it’s not. He thinks he knows the name of the man, but it doesn’t come to him. He remembers the feel of ice cold metal in his hands, of frost erupting from the tip of the gun—yes, it’s a gun—he holds, as he tries to hit this man in red with the cold crystals. Strangely enough, he remembers feeling that this man was never really an enemy.

There’s a girl with dark hair and a smirk, her hand holding up something sleek and gold—a blaster of some sort. Her mannerisms are so familiar, and it takes him a minute to recognize them as his own. His heart pangs when he realizes that he was probably closer to this person than anyone else. He hasn’t seen her for months, he knows. Is she okay? Does she know what happened to him? And he still can’t remember her name. Why can’t he remember her name?

He remembers a group of people, maybe eight of them. There’s a man with hawk wings and old armor—he died recently, right? But somehow, he remains alive even after that. (He always considered him to be a little stuck-up, if he’s being honest.) No further details come to him.

There’s a girl who seems to match, she has wings and armor, too, and a fierceness in her eyes that tells him she is a warrior. Last time he saw her, she was wielding a golden mace that made the glittering ring on her finger stand out. No other images come to his mind.

Another man in a metal suit with blasters, who is head-over-heels in love with the Hawkgirl (he can’t remember the names, so yes, he’s going with Hawkgirl). Metal man was the one who gave her the ring, he remembers. That’s all he can recall.

There are two more—one young man, maybe even as young as a teenager, and then an older man, a professor—who can merge together to become a fire-powered flying… _thing_ (he can’t remember the proper term he knows exists). They argue. A lot. But they care. He knows they do. But he doesn’t remember their names.

Then there’s yet another man with a glowing blaster and a long coat—he has a title of some sort. A captain, maybe? He is some sort of leader to them, certainly, albeit a very worn-out one with pain etched deep onto his face. Why so angry, despairing? He doesn’t know. He _knew_ , but now he doesn’t. Can’t remember.

There is a man who is just so familiar, and it’s like the name is right there, but he just can’t remember. There’s a certain look in his eyes, like there’s an almost… _instability_ there. He can’t remember anything else, he only knows to associate that man with flame.

And then a woman in white, with some long weapon—a staff of some sort—held confidently in her hands. A certain look on her face that warns of certain, probably deadly, talents, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. Her _voice_ … telling him that she can be better, _he_ can be better, they can _both_ be better than what they’re expected to be. That she’s trying to be. He should, too. That same feeling of warmth he remembered earlier floods him, and it doesn’t burn the way he expects it to. It’s… _nice_. He doesn’t really know why. He only can think of one reason.

He thinks he loved her. He must have.

The bells of truth ring in his head—faint, but there.

The thing is, he should remember these people better than he does. All he remembers is the basics—just what they can do. No names, no faces. They should be _familiar_ , but they’re just… _not_.

They’re not, and even worse, it’s all fading to a blur. Beyond that, it’s completely _vanishing_.

(The woman in white. She was good. She… helped him? She helped him feel. That’s all he can remember now. Nothing else. No _one_ else.)

It terrifies him.

He’s not used to feeling so _vulnerable._

He can feel everything draining away, leaving only darkness and heat and _hurt_ , and then there’s a flash of white light, and then it’s all gone. 

* * *

He finds himself lying on the ground, nothing feeling broken. Nothing even hurts. _That’s not possible._

( _Nothing’s impossible, you should know that by now_ , his mind tells him, and he feels the statement begin to pull at the chains locking up his memories. _Fastest man alive… reincarnated hawk people… burning man metahuman… resurrected assassin... yeah, too weird. Not thinking about it._ )

_Am I dead?_ is all he can bring himself to wonder as he squints, trying to block out the blinding light shining from above. The golden light reminds him of something—no, someone. The dark hair, the gold blaster… _Lisa!_ He remembers Lisa, his sister. How could he have forgotten her? He has to go see Lisa… But Barry and Team Flash, too. Yes, he can remember them again, it's all coming back. They deserve to know. And his own team as well, of course. He _has_ to find the team, show them that he’s okay.

Suddenly, someone drops to their knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder.

“Oh my God, Leonard!”

Despite the half-frantic, half-disbelieveing tone, and the fact that he can’t really place the voice’s identity with his admittedly very weak memory, inexplicable relief floods him at hearing the voice. He doesn’t know how anyone found him so quickly, but he isn’t complaining. And the voice… it’s familiar. He’s home. He knows he is.

“You're... you’re okay, but how? I thought you were dead, we all did!”

The person the voice belongs to leans over him, and he sees the wild blond hair that falls across her—yes, it’s a her—face. He sees the fierce eyes, the stunned yet confident expression. Once more, that now-familiar warmth fills him. _I’m_ _home_.

He knows her. He _remembers_ her. He doesn’t yet know if he remembers everything, but he knows he remembers her. She’s no longer a blur, a smudge in his memory. She’s _there_ , perfectly intact and bringing warmth to his icy persona.

He remembers what he stole, better than just a kiss (though he did take one of those, too). He stole her heart. And she stole his. Her face said it all in that moment before he… died. Yeah, he died, but he came back. He came back to his own time. He came back to his life. He came back to _her_.

And he realizes: she brought him back, too. She lead him home.

(Who would’ve thought? The assassin and the thief.)

He loves her. He knows he does.

“Sara.”

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to believe he's dead. I absolutely refuse. He can be falling through a time tunnel into nothingness, but he can't be dead. Especially not right after CaptainCanary finally happened! Just... no. I can't believe that.
> 
> ... Although that may be because he has that new contract that makes him a regular in the Berlantiverse. So there's hope!
> 
> Anyway, I might post a sequel to this. I'm thinking about it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, and comments are always welcome!


End file.
